Chapter Eighteen
He had been summoned by his father.
It was early afternoon on another bright spring day. A summons from St. Denis wasn’t anything unusual because his father had been summoning him every day, several times a day, for the past six weeks. Ever since his brother was killed at The Black Cock.
Six weeks of hell.
They still spent their days in shock at what had happened.
After the discussion in his father’s solar regarding the bounty hunter that had come sniffing around for Athdara de Ghent, St. Gerard had taken it upon himself to remove what he considered to be a threat to Blackchurch and its legacy.
When trying to deduce St. Gerard’s motivation for confronting the bounty hunter, that was all they seemed to be able to figure out.
As usual, St. Gerard had tried to wrest the situation away from his father.
He knew he was going to be the next Earl of Exmoor, and he’d always taken that destiny very seriously.
As time went on, he became more and more engaged in the operation of Blackchurch regardless of what his father thought or did.
St. Denis always welcomed that kind of participation, particularly from the man who would someday be the next Earl of Exmoor, but St. Gerard seem to want to overreach more than his father would allow.
St. Sebastian always thought that his brother assumed their father was incapable of decisions at times. Or perhaps it was that St. Gerard simply thought he knew best. In any case, that driving determination ended six weeks ago when a bounty hunter took a knife to him.
St. Denis was still struggling with it.
These days, it seemed as if a cloud was hanging over Blackchurch.
Not over the trainers or the recruits, but the family of de Bottreaux.
They were the ones who felt the cloud—the cloud of uncertainty and the cloud of grief.
There were so many facets of their anguish, but for St. Sebastian, there was an added element he’d personally never experienced before.
He was now the heir apparent.
That was still a shock to him. His brother had always been the one with the legacy to uphold.
St. Sebastian had simply been the younger brother to a great legacy, and there had been no real expectations upon him.
Now, he was the legacy, and all of the expectations that have been heaped up on Gerard now shifted to him.
He wasn’t sure he could stand the strain.
But his father was depending on him, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for the man.
It wasn’t as if he could shirk his duties.
Great things were expected of him now that he was the next Earl of Exmoor, and that was intimidating to a man of his character.
St. Sebastian had always been a rather quiet man by nature, mostly because of his speech impediment.
He didn’t like giving orders, but he had no problem carrying them out.
He was a better soldier than a leader, always doing what he was told.
He was happy with that. But it wasn’t as if he was incapable of command, however, because he was.
Very much so. He simply didn’t have that aggressive drive that his brother had possessed.
The youngest de Bottreaux brother was more intelligent and more educated than anyone in his family, St. Gerard included.
He had everything to outshine his older brother—except that killer ambition that great men had.
St. Sebastian had fostered just like his brother, in the finest homes in England, but he was more of the cerebral type than the warfare type.
He enjoyed strategy and planning, and he was very good at it.
More than that, he had a wisdom about him, something that couldn’t be learned. It was innate.
But it still didn’t mean he was ready for the job as Lord of Exmoor.
However, like it or not, ready or not, the inheritance was his, and as he made his way to his father’s solar, he braced himself.
St. Denis had not been the same since St. Gerard’s passing, and St. Sebastian prepared himself for yet another session of tears and anger. It was a difficult thing to watch.
And he was in for it yet again.
Strange how life, for all of them, could change so swiftly.
The days were getting longer as spring approached the threshold of summer.
Overhead, the sky was a spectacular blue, and puffy clouds were scattered across the expanse.
It promised to be a warm summer, because already there was a hint of heat in the air, something that blew up from the southern coast of Devon.
He hoped for a pleasant summer but supposed it didn’t really matter.
For his family, it was going to be a miserable year no matter what the weather was like.
Death had a way of darkening any year, regardless of the season.
The gatehouse of Exford Castle yawned open before him, and he passed beneath the raised portcullis, acknowledging the men on guard.
These were Exmoor soldiers, and there were few of them, but they were highly trained and well paid.
They, too, knew the misery that St. Denis was going through, but there were whispers that St. Gerard’s death wasn’t much of a tragedy because it paved the way for St. Sebastian, who would make a much better earl.
He had heard the rumblings, too, thanks to a careless servant, and he wasn’t comfortable with them.
He could only hope his father hadn’t heard the same.
As he took the steps to the keep, the entry swallowed him up.
“Sebo?” came a voice as soon as he entered the keep. “Sebo, is that you?”
St. Sebastian headed for the solar door. “A-aye, Father,” he said, entering the warm, stale chamber. “I-I am here. I-I came as quickly as I could.”
St. Denis was sitting behind his great table, which was more cluttered than ever before. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve not seen you all day.”
That wasn’t true. St. Sebastian had seen his father just a few hours ago, albeit only briefly. But he didn’t argue with the man. There wasn’t any point.
“A-and here I am now,” he said. “Wh-what do you require?”
St. Denis appeared disheveled. He wasn’t sleeping well these days, and it showed, but his mind was still sharp. In response to St. Sebastian’s question, he lifted an open, well-worn vellum envelope with a broken red seal.
“Something we have been waiting for,” he said.
“I have received news regarding Toxandria from my old friend, Sverre Kalken, Comte de Roubaix. He did not have the title when I knew him, but he has inherited it in the years since. I recall that his father was a very powerful warlord who provided Henry of England with many troops in his battles in the Vexin. Sverre’s mother was an English noblewoman, so I suppose he felt some loyalty to Henry. ”
St. Sebastian was interested. “O-oh?” he said. “Th-that was a swift answer. O-only six weeks?”
St. Denis nodded. “Six weeks,” he confirmed. “It took at least two or three weeks for my missive to reach Roubaix. He must have answered it immediately.”
“Wh-what does he say?”
St. Denis set the vellum down and looked at his son. “Very interesting things,” he said. “Roubaix is not far from Ghent, you know. Not far from Breda Castle, the heart of the Toxandrian empire. Evidently, Atilla de Ghent is facing an uprising from his own people.”
St. Sebastian’s eyes widened. “T-truly?” he said. “Wh-why?”
St. Denis shrugged. “Who knows?” he said.
“My guess would be the fact that he killed his own brother to take the title and, mayhap, is not kind to his people. According to Sverre, the city of Breda, which is quite large, is still in shambles after the siege. The man does not seem to care about his people. His mercenary army has taken over the city, and the new duke gives out titles and lands to these filthy mercenaries, taking them away from the rightful nobles.”
“Th-then he is willing to march on Breda?”
St. Denis nodded. “For peace, he is,” he said. “Evidently, Atilla de Ghent has been threatening to move on Roubaix lands. It seems that he was not satisfied simply overtaking his brother. Now, he wants more.”
St. Sebastian could see great hope in that. “Th-then he has a reason to help,” he said. “N-not simply to help the duke’s daughter avenge the man’s death.”
“Sverre has other allies who will also help.”
“H-have you told Lady Athdara yet?”
St. Denis shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I wanted to tell you first. From what I have heard, we are going to have a problem.”
“W-with what?”
“With Tay.”
“Wh-why do you say that?”
St. Denis cocked his head. “Have you not heard the rumors, Sebo?” he said. “The man is in love with Lady Athdara. Everyone says so.”
St. Sebastian had heard the rumors, but Tay was his friend. He wasn’t going to involve himself in something that wasn’t any of his business, and he certainly wasn’t going to confirm anything to his father.
“M-mayhap,” he said after a moment, “th-the surest way to find out is to summon Tay and Lady Athdara. Sh-she must be told—and if the rumors are true, so must he.”
St. Denis sighed faintly. “I know,” he said. “I hope I did not make a mistake in making the lady Tay’s ward. It seemed the logical thing to do at the time. Tay has never fallen for a woman that I know of except for the lady a couple of years ago. The merchant’s daughter?”
St. Sebastian nodded. “Sh-she was not truthful with him,” he said. “Th-that romance was always doomed.”
“You knew her?”
“I-I met her once,” St. Sebastian said. “H-her father would bring her to The Black Cock. Sh-she was a silly creature, but pretty.”
St. Denis thought on that a moment before waving a hand as if to push the subject aside. “Be that as it may, I never thought Tay would become emotional about Lady Athdara,” he said. “She is a beautiful woman, to be sure, but she was also a recruit. And we know how he feels about female recruits.”